


Five Ways Nathan Petrelli Saves New York (and Sometimes His Brother)

by Lenore



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: 5 Things, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's the reluctant hero who saves the day. Sometimes it's not pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Nathan Petrelli Saves New York (and Sometimes His Brother)

_Once there was a needle._

It's a quick car ride, just over the George Washington, third exit off Route 4, chosen for convenience as much as its reputation for discretion. Nathan makes the trip most every day. The building is low-slung, neat brick, a careful ribbon of grass surrounding it, like any suburban office park. Inside, the receptionist—the round-cheeked one who always has the same pink cardigan draped over her shoulders—nods familiarly and doesn't bother announcing him.

He finds Dr. Cranston at the nurse's station, filling out paperwork. "How is he today?" Always the same question.

Peter's doctor is attractive in a severe way; the compassionate look she gives Nathan softens her features, making her that much prettier. "He's calmer, but I'm afraid there's not much progress on his delusions."

"Still thinks he's going to single-handedly destroy the city, huh?" Nathan smiles tiredly, knowing it will look brave.

The doctor's face goes softer yet. "Would you like to see him?"

She unlocks the door to the ward, a long corridor made of cinderblock, painted the color of gunmetal, all the more unsettling for the silence. Nathan has always imagined psychiatric hospitals through the prism of Hollywood, a noisy bedlam, but the patients here are too heavily medicated to do much more than sleep and stare hopelessly into space.

Dr. Cranston lets Nathan into the room where they keep Peter. "Just call the orderly when you're finished." Keys clang on metal as she locks him in.

The room is small and empty, all soft surfaces. Peter sits curled in a corner, listing to one side. He's thinner, his cheekbones too sharp, hollows beneath his eyes. The white pajamas make him look more vulnerable.

Nathan kneels down, says gently, "Pete."

It takes effort for Peter to look at him, as if his head is just too heavy to move. "Nathan." The word is slurred, but there's no uncertainty in it.

"Hey." Nathan brushes the hair back from his forehead. It's damp with sweat. He unfolds his handkerchief, wipes the corners of Peter's mouth where drool has dried.

"Thirsty," Peter croaks.

He always is, and Nathan has a bottle of water ready, uncaps it, holds it steady until Peter can't drink anymore.

"Better?" Nathan strokes his cheek.

"I remember. I still remember everything. And you can't keep me here, Nathan," his voice rises desperately on the name.

Nathan presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Shh. It's going to be okay."

He takes the syringe from his coat pocket, swipes an alcohol swab over Peter's arm. He's an old hand at this by now, but it wouldn't matter if he weren't. Peter is weak as a kitten. He goes slack as the drug hits his blood, slumping heavily to one side. Nathan sits down beside him.

"Please. I have to—" Peter's mouth trembles, spit hanging from it in strings. "You can't—"

"I _can_." Nathan puts an arm around his shoulders. "I can keep you safe." He kisses his brother's hair. "No more saving the world. Or destroying it. Just let go, Peter. Let it all go."

* * *

_Once there was a sword._

It's the way Hiro stares at the painting of himself—ridiculous as it is, a small, round-faced man wielding a sword at a carnivorous dinosaur sixty-five million years too late—that gives Nathan the idea, that makes him believe enough to even suggest it.

"If I get it for you, you'll owe me a favor," he says it with the nonchalant calculation that has always served him so well.

Hiro blinks, as if he doesn't quite trust his grasp of English. "You will help me, flying man?"

Nathan nods. "I think we can help each other."

The negotiation with Linderman goes surprisingly easily. The man doesn't realize what he has, or else he knows far too much. Either way, the sword belongs to Hiro now. "Just remember our bargain," Nathan reminds him as he hands it over.

For the most part, Nathan believes there will never be any need to call in this favor. Peter has always been prone to nonsense, too easily lost in daydreams, and people don't just mysteriously turn into human time bombs. He may be a man who can fly, but he still feels certain of this. Of course, he's also a man who hedges his bets, so the sword, the deal. It's always good to have a card to play, and in this case, it proves necessary.

November comes, and Nathan wins the election, and Peter touches someone he shouldn't. It's like watching a rerun on television, everything playing out just the way Peter described from his dream, same cast of characters, same ruinous plot. There are people running in the streets, and Peter is starting to glow, and Nathan shouts, "Now, Hiro! Now!"

Hiro looks confused only for a moment, then pulls the sword from its scabbard, squeezes his eyes shut, shaking with the intensity of his concentration. _Change the past, change the future_, but they go back two weeks, a month, a year, five, and none of it makes a difference. They always end up in the same place, that ordinary city block, the same dead end.

The do-or-die moment rolls around yet again, and this time Nathan grabs onto the sword with Hiro. "We have to go all the way back to the beginning."

There's a story that Nathan's mother tells at dinner parties, always with just the right bemused smile, of the Petrelli family's colorful ancestry, distant enough now to be claimed. Nathan's great-great-great grandfather Giuseppe Petrelli was an inventor of sorts. He had dreams, at least. Out back of the family house was a shed where he kept his flying contraption, every spare moment spent there, staring and mulling and tinkering. _How do you keep a loose collection of paper and sticks and dust together long enough to get it into the air?_ This was the question standing between Giuseppe and the great blue yonder, and the workaday world spun away as he crafted and calculated and perfected that missing piece that would finally free him from gravity's grip.

His wife Alda came out to the shed at least once a day to shriek and plead. "Men can't fly. Don't you have the sense God gave you?" The people of the village had taken to calling her husband Crazy Giuseppe, and Alda had been the great beauty of her day. This was not supposed to be her life.

Giuseppe's son Carlo would follow his mother out to the shed and stay behind after she stormed back to the house, always with the same question, "Why is it so important to fly, Papa?"

His father would stop for a moment, eyes lifted to the horizon. "Because that's how we touch the future."

Only he never did.

One day when Alda came out to deliver her regular dose of invective she found her husband white-faced and stricken on the ground. She screamed out for her sons, and they carried Giuseppe inside, and Carlo ran to fetch the doctor. Giuseppe lingered for a few days, but his heart trembled under the burden of his impossible ambition—that's what the villagers said anyway—and finally it gave out altogether. The flying machine never saw the sun, dismantled in its shed, the pieces carried away by those who had some use for paper or sticks or dust. The shed itself was burned to the ground under Alda's watchful eye, and Crazy Giuseppe was soon enough replaced by Giuseppe, The Loving Husband and Giuseppe, The Pious Christian and Giuseppe, The Good Provider, ghosts of a man who had never been.

Alda kept a look out for any hint of her husband's madness in her sons, Carlo in particular, the youngest and most spirited, but her worry proved to be for nothing. The older boys trudged their way into adulthood, learning trades, buying land. They married practical women, sired rough-and-tumble children, took communion every Sunday, got drunk most Saturday nights, and were by all accounts, fine, upstanding, thoroughly unimaginative citizens.

Carlo, cleverer than his brothers, saw that his father's missing piece was actually quite a useful invention, a strong, lightweight hinge that could be used in farm equipment and construction and various sorts of industry. He opened a factory, and soon had more orders than he could fill, even with three full shifts of workers. The townspeople were all in agreement that occasionally the apple did fall rather far from the tree. If sometimes on a cloudless, moonlit night, they saw something up in the sky that wasn't supposed to be there, that looked suspiciously like a man, they kept this fact to themselves. It was a small town, after all, and no one wanted to become the Crazy Ludovico or Crazy Amaranta of local gossip.

A few villages over, the Carsella family had problems of their own. They owned the bakery, had for generations. Keeping the town supplied with bread was honest work, a noble calling even, and the Carsellas were held in high regard for the quality of their loaf. The trouble was their daughter Domenica, who took concern for the townspeople's welfare just a little too far.

Domenica worked behind the counter at the bakery, and when customers came in, she would fix her big, dark eyes on them and stare and stare like she could see right into them. _Gives you a chill down to your bones, that one_, people said behind her back. The truly unsettling thing was that Domenica didn't just look, she _saw_. She'd appear at a neighbor's door with a pot of soup and a poultice. When the lady of the house said in confusion, "but there's no sickness here," Domenica would smile and assure her, "oh, there will be." Sure enough by morning, one of the children would have come down with the fever.

It wasn't just illness that Domenica could divine. She had a knack for anticipating all manner of hardships and bad luck, and she applied herself cheerfully to preemptive comforting and healing. Her reward, if you could call it that, was _witch, witch_ whispered in her wake everywhere she went, not that this diminished her enthusiasm for do-gooding any.

The punch line of the story, as Mrs. Petrelli told it to the guests gathered around her dining table, was how these two met: Carlo, the level-headed son of the town eccentric, and Domenica, the daughter who drove her perfectly respectable parents crazy with her strange preoccupations. Carlo was on his way back to his village, having spent the day in the town where the Carsellas lived, conducting business for his factory. He could have taken the coach, but it was not a long way, and there was a pretty view of the mountains, and out walking alone was the closet thing to freedom when prudence kept Carlo earthbound.

It was normally quite a safe road, no highwaymen, no reason for caution, but fortune was working against Carlo Petrelli that day—or for him, depending on how you looked at it. There were bushes lining the way, and Carlo stepped just as a viper slithered out from the undergrowth. It struck, and he collapsed, grabbing at his calf. The pain was too much, and flying took strength and focus, and that, Carlo feared, was that. The sun was starting to go down, less chance of anyone happening along once it got dark, and he was sadly contemplating the irony of a man gravity couldn't touch dying in the dust when a figure crested the hill, silhouetted in the last light. The person came closer, out of the sun, a woman carrying a satchel, her long dark hair loose about her shoulders.

"Don't worry." Domenica settled on her knees beside him. "I have what you need right here."

Quick flash of knife through poisoned flesh, over before Carlo could even cry out. Domenica slathered on a gray-green mix of herbs that smelled of wet earth and wrapped the wound tightly with a bandage.

She pushed a vial into Carlo's hand. "Here. Drink this tonic."

He tipped it back and returned the bottle, and as their hands touched, he looked at her, and she looked at him, and _that_ was indeed that. The practical son of a dreamer (with a secret that never makes it into Mrs. Petrelli's story) and the baker's daughter who saw too much, and people in both towns whispered that it must be misplaced gratitude, witchcraft, a mistake. No one guessed the truth, that Carlo and Domenica were made for each other.

They married, and Carlo opened another factory and then another, and they had babies, and moved to America. This new world was nothing but paper and sticks and dust that needed to be held together, and they prospered, and passed on their legacy, in every sense, right down the Petrelli line to Nathan and Peter.

So the story goes.

So it _went_.

Hiro and Nathan materialize on a dusty road in another century, all the way back at the beginning. In the distance, a man is walking. As he gets closer, Nathan holds out his hand to Hiro for the sword. "Can I borrow that?"

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, flying man?" Hiro asks, even as he hands it over.

Nathan strides forward, raising the sword. The man cowers, and Nathan brings down the blade, taking the viper apart as it rises up to strike. Carlo lets his arms fall away from his face, and stares at Nathan, and finally says shakily, "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Nathan tells him. "Don't let me keep you."

Carlo gives him a confused look, but does reluctantly continue on, glancing back once, twice, and then he disappears from sight around a bend in the road.

"Flying man," Hiro says gravely.

Nathan keeps his eyes trained on the horizon. "It's the only way."

He's spared an argument by Domenica's appearance. She strides purposefully over the hill, but then her gaze catches on him, and she slows, her determination faltering.

"You're not who I was expecting," she says.

"No," Nathan agrees, "but trust me, it's better this way."

Her expression is thoughtful, her eyes large and dark and fixed on his face as if she can see right into him. At last she nods, turns, goes back the way she came. Nathan waits, watches, and when he's sure she's not coming back, he hands the sword over to Hiro. "Okay. Let's go."

"But—" Hiro's forehead creases with concern.

Nathan lifts his chin and insists, as much for his own benefit as Hiro's, "There was no other way."

Hiro nods sadly and holds up the sword and closes his eyes, and then there is no more story. There is just a city, perfectly whole, and two men, a lawyer and a nurse, walking the same streets, unconnected, unaware of each other. Things are happening all around them, big things, important things, things that will determine the future, but they are ordinary men, and none of it touches them.

* * *

_Once there was a woman._

It's Mohinder who comes to him with the name. "I found her on the list. She might be able to help." He pauses. "I can't vouch for her character."

"Just give me the address." Nathan holds out his hand impatiently. If she can keep Peter from turning into a one-man Armageddon, nothing else about her possibly matters.

The last time Nathan was in New Orleans was five years ago, an annual meeting of the bar association, an excuse to write off a weekend in the French Quarter, dinners at Arnaud's, late nights of jazz and bourbon and friendly female company. Maybe the tourist parts of the city still resemble the sophisticate's playground he remembers, but out where Chantale Avery lives it looks as if the apocalypse has been and gone, some houses nothing but a trash heap now, a dirty line cutting the ones that are still standing, a reminder of where the water was. Chantale's place has garbage covering the front yard, a layer so thick it's taken the place of the lawn. There are bare patches on the roof. The wooden stairs out front look ready to collapse in the next strong breeze. A lone shutter remains on the front of the house, dangling precariously by one hinge.

Nathan hesitates by the gate. A man out walking his dog says in a hush, "Don't mess with Chantale. She'll do things to you."

Before Nathan can ask what that means, the man has already hurried away.

Nathan heads up to the porch the same way he walks to the podium when he's delivering a speech, almost lazily, as if there's no reason to hurry, the world already his. The woman who opens the door has stringy bottle-blonde hair, deep set eyes, girl-next-door freckles across her nose like a false advertisement. She smiles crookedly. "Well, looky here."

Her accent is pure Arkansas pine bluffs, and Nathan raises an eyebrow. "Chantale, huh?"

She shrugs. "It's better for business than Wanda-Jo." She rests her cheek against the door and studies him. "So, what brings you calling, Mr. Future Congressman?" He's not quite quick enough to cover his surprise, and Chantale laughs. "Didn't they tell you? I can do things. Know things, too."

She steps back to let him inside. The house is bottomlessly dark, stained, ancient wallpaper the color of wine on the walls, heavy drapes at the windows choking off the light. It smells like generations of fried food and backed up sewer. She leads him into the living room and nods for him to have a seat.

"About these things you supposedly do—"

Chantale interrupts, leans over, puts her hand on his thigh. "Why don't I just show you?"

He pulls his leg away. "I've seen your police record. How many arrests for prostitution? Ten? Or was it twelve?" He gives her a hard stare. "Of course, what's really interesting is how often your name pops up in suspicious death cases. A man who drove his car head on into a concrete barrier. One who ended up a pile of ash. Another like a melted candle. All customers of yours."

"I find what's hidden in a man and set it free," Chantale's voice dips low, provocative in a practiced way. "That's why they come to me. Whether they can handle all that newfound potential or not—" She tilts her head. "But isn't that why you're here, Mr. Ambitious? You want me to set you loose?"

"My brother is the one who needs help," he says stiffly.

Chantale reaches for a pack of cigarettes, lights up a Pall Mall. "I might be able to do something for him. Comes with a price, of course."

"How much?" Nathan asks, clipped and practical.

Chantale's smile grows more asymmetrical as it widens. "I was talking about consequences, but naturally I will need cash considerations for my time and trouble."

"How do I know your help is worth paying for?" he challenges.

She shrugs. "You don't. But I can tell you this: men come to me for two reasons, to find what they've got hidden or figure out how to keep it from killing them. If you didn't believe that at least a teensy tiny little bit, you wouldn't be sitting here." She gives him a long, speculative look. "Of course, I can't do anything for your brother if he doesn't want to cooperate. Long enough to meet with me, at least."

"Leave that to me." Nathan gets to his feet. "I have a plane waiting at the airport. Do you need to pack some chicken bones or potions or—" He waves his hand. "Whatever you use."

Chantale glides up from the chair, runs her hands over her body. "I have everything I need right here. " She's wearing a vicious smile.

By the time the plane hits the tarmac at LaGuardia, Nathan is very happy to be home. A car is waiting to take them to the warehouse out in Queens that he's rented just for this purpose. Chantale watches out the window as the city buzzes past, all sharp angles and grit and beautifully whole. If she has any opinion of it, there's no hint in her expression. When they arrive, Nathan tells the driver to wait, and they go inside. Peter is already there, tied to a chair, spitting threats at the hired help. One of the men Nathan is paying raises a hand, to shut Peter up the old fashioned way.

"Out!" Nathan says sharply. He nods at the exit, and the men leave.

Peter's eyes are huge and accusing. "What the hell is this, Nathan?"

Nathan touches his shoulder. "I promised I'd help you, Peter."

"And I said I was handling it!" he sputters indignantly.

Nathan ignores that. "Meet Chantale."

She approaches, taking her sweet time, and runs a hand up Peter's arm. "We're going to be good friends, aren't we, honey?" Her voice is low and thrilling, every redneck trace purged from it. Peter stares as if mesmerized, and she smiles. "We don't need these old ropes, do we?" She slips a knife out of one shiny black boot and makes quick work of the restraints. The way she wields the blade is unnervingly precise.

"Come on, sugar." Chantale pulls Peter up by the arm, strips his T-shirt over his head. "That's right. Just let Chantale take care of you."

Nathan takes a step toward them, alarmed. "What do you think you're doing?"

Chantale unbuckles Peter's belt. "That's how the mojo works, big brother. Skin to skin."

She takes off the rest of Peter's clothes, then her own, and strokes a hand over Peter's chest, down his side. Peter is aroused, but he keeps muttering, "Don't. I can't, I can't."

Nathan moves to the door, intending to step outside, leave them to it, but Chantale calls out, "Where do you think you're going? You're not getting off that easy."

His jaw tightens, but for some inexplicable reason, he stays. Chantale's laughter is high and bright and utterly wrong in the circumstances. She walks Peter backward to a bare mattress, the only other item in the room, and lays him out on it, slides down next to him. "I'm going to find all those secrets you've got in you, Peter, and pull them right out." She swirls her palm over his belly and then moves it down to his cock. Peter's eyes turn white and faintly glowing, and his back arches violently. "No, no, I can't stop it! It's not my fault!"

"Come on, baby," Chantale croons to him. "Fight me."

She slithers down his body, lewd play of tongue over skin, and pillows her head on his thigh while she strokes his cock. "I'm going to get inside you, baby. Push every button you've got." Her smile is made of malicious enjoyment. "Unless you stop me."

She goes down on him, and the few things that are in the room go flying, the ropes and then the chair, crashing into the wall, the wood splintering.

Chantale pulls off Peter's cock, shoots an accusing look at Nathan. "You didn't tell me he was one of _those_." Nathan doesn't answer, because the truth is, he has no idea what his brother is. Chantale tosses her hair over her shoulder. "This may take a while."

Her hand disappears between Peter's legs, and he kicks his feet out, his eyes going wide. Chantale works him with her fingers, goes back down, sucking harder, and Peter screams out in pain, grabbing his temples.

"Stop it!" Nathan shouts and then falters, torn between a picture of his brother going nuclear and the voice of decency in his head, _not like this, not this violation_.

Peter's eyes lock onto Nathan, and he spits out, "Who's to blame for it, Nathan?"

Nathan swallows hard, and can't look away, no matter how much he wants to.

"You're not trying hard enough, Peter," Chantale sing-songs, pushing up, tossing a leg carelessly across Peter's body, sinking down.

She starts to ride, and Peter flickers, fades, and then nothing.

Nathan bounds forward. "What the hell—"

Chantale rises and falls, laughter trilling out of her. "He's right here. Trust me." She runs her hands over the empty space where Peter should be. "You ready to fight me yet, sugar? "

There's more flickering, disturbingly like a malfunctioning fluorescent light, and Peter is back, never left apparently, red-faced and panting as Chantale fucks herself on him more vigorously.

"You want me off, you're going to have to get me out of your mind." Chantale cups her breasts, and her head falls back, and Nathan is suddenly reminded how close he's standing to his naked, sweating brother and the whore he's hired to fuck him. As unseemly as it is, he's frozen to the spot, but Peter isn't. Nathan can see daylight growing between the mattress and Peter's back, and still it takes a moment to put that together, to understand. Peter stops a few feet above the ground, hovering there, and Nathan stares. Peter is _flying_.

If Chantale is the least bit surprised, it's her little secret. She grabs hold of Peter's arm for balance and hooks a leg around his waist and the steady rhythm of her fucking doesn't stutter, not even for a second. Nathan has the nearly irresistible urge to knock her off—never mind that it would make all this for nothing—because flying is his and Peter is his, and sharing has never been a particular forte.

Maybe it's the hostile way Nathan is staring, or perhaps Chantale really does just know things, because she turns her head, flashes a big, smug smile. "Cozy, isn't it? Just the three of us."

Nathan's hands clench into fists, and Peter's eyes lock onto him, widen, and then he's yelling _get off!_, anger giving the words a hard luster. They come thudding back down, and Peter sweeps out his arm, pushing Chantale away. She gets to her feet, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, looking quite pleased with herself.

"Had some fight in you after all, huh, little brother?" She smirks as she shimmies into her clothes.

Nathan pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket. "The car's waiting to take you back to the airport."

She tucks the money into her bra. "Nice doing business with you, big brother." A wink, and she's gone.

Peter lies limp, still sweaty and breathing hard, and it's like dressing a rag doll trying to get the clothes back on him. "You want to cooperate with me a little here?"

Peter ignores him, and Nathan manages on his own. He gets Peter up, but he's like jello on his feet, and finally Nathan swings him up into his arms and carries him to his car, discreetly parked out back. Peter slumps against the passenger side door, eyes closed, and Nathan drives with textbook care, hands at ten and two, checking his mirrors. They get to Peter's building, and Nathan ignores the stares as he half drags his brother into the elevator.

He lets out his breath when they're finally inside the apartment. "Almost there." He steers Peter into the bedroom, over to the bed. Peter pitches forward, face first, eyes closed, fists twisting in the coverlet. Nathan straightens and takes a step back and thinks about leaving, dearly wants to go in fact, but he heads out to the kitchen instead, gets a glass of water, comes back.

He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, and Peter's eyes snap open. Nathan cups the back of his head. "Here." He holds the glass to Peter's lips.

Peter drinks it all down, and Nathan sets the glass on the nightstand. It seems only natural to stroke his hand over Peter's hair. "Do you think it helped?"

A moment's pause and then, "Yeah."

This doesn't keep Peter from staring up at Nathan, the expression in his eyes like a bruise, wordlessly accusing.

Nathan takes a breath, presses a kiss to Peter's forehead. "You can hate me, but you can't die."

Peter's eyes flutter closed again, sleep coming on fast. Just before he falls, words drift out of him, muffled by the pillow, "I can't hate you."

He sounds almost disappointed.

* * *

_Once the answer found Nathan._

The luncheon address to the League of Women Voters goes well, Nathan thinks. He fields questions about education, the environment, crime, all areas where he's strong, and afterwards, Mrs. Cecily Grant, of the Park Avenue Grants, shakes his hand and says, "Not bad for a first-time candidate, Mr. Petrelli." Coming from Mrs. Cecily Grant, this is high praise, indeed.

Fifteen minutes to get downtown for a meeting with the leaders of the local UAW, and Nathan is saying his thank-you's and hope-to-see-you-soon's on the way out to the limo.

Someone takes him by the arm. "Mr. Petrelli. A moment."

Nathan's driver, who doubles as his bodyguard, comes striding over to pry the man loose, but Nathan holds up a hand. "It's all right, Oliver." He regards the man in glasses politely. "What can I do for you, Mr.—"

The man smiles. "My name isn't important."

Nathan raises an eyebrow. "No? Well, as fascinating as this is, I have a meeting. So if you'll excuse me."

He pulls away, and Oliver opens the car door, and the man in glasses calls out, "It's about your brother."

Nathan turns sharply, and the man's smile is almost coy. Nathan calculates the pros and cons before nodding to the back seat. "Get in."

The car pulls away from the curb, and Nathan pushes the button for the privacy screen. "All right. Talk."

The man in glasses leans back in the seat. "It's simple, really. Your brother has a problem. I have a solution."

Nathan keeps his expression blank. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" The man's mouth tilts up mockingly. "I'll refresh your memory then. In less than two weeks, your brother is going to have a most unfortunate encounter and absorb a very dangerous ability he has no hope of controlling. Everything we're passing, every building, every road, every bridge, every everything is going to be vaporized in an instant. Is it coming back now?"

"Who are you?" Nathan demands coldly, hiding his panic. "What do you want?"

"I've already told you. I'm someone who wants to help. In the past I wouldn't have bothered with a conversation like this. I would have just taken matters into my own hands. Recently, though," the man chooses his words carefully, "I've come to see the mistake of that approach."

Nathan studies him, but the man's poker face is unfaltering. "I'll need more details before I agree to anything."

The man shakes his head. "It's more effective if you don't know too much."

"That inspires confidence," Nathan says dryly.

The man shrugs. "There aren't any guarantees here, Mr. Petrelli. This solution is temporary at best, but at least Manhattan will still be standing on November 9th."

"I'll need to think about it," Nathan says at last.

The man nods, taps the glass divider, tells Oliver, "Let me out in the next block." He hands Nathan a card. "Call me when you decide. The access code is on the back."

The car stops, and the man gets out. Nathan glances at the card, a phone number and URL for Primatech Paper, not exactly what he's expecting.

The man in glasses leans in, giving Nathan a long, curious look. "It was interesting to finally meet you, Mr. Petrelli." He slams the door and disappears into the crowd.

Nathan is off his game the rest of the day, only half listening, rattling off canned answers, smiling like a robot. Finally, he cancels the rest of his appearances and gives Oliver an address. Isaac Mendez answers the door with a brush in his hand, obviously surprised to find Nathan standing there. "Mr. Petrelli, what can I do for you?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure."

Isaac smiles wryly. "Well, I guess you should come in while you figure it out."

Nathan follows him down the stairs, and the paintings exert a sort of gravity over him. He goes to stand in front of the man burning up from the inside out.

"So, looks like you found what you came for." Isaac reaches for a rag, starts to clean the brush.

Nathan stares at the picture and thinks the same thing he always does, _That's not Peter, it can't be._.

"You still looking for your brother?" Isaac asks.

Nathan shakes his head. "I found him. When he was ready to be found."

Isaac smiles. "He's not a kid anymore."

"Yeah." Nathan rubs his temples tiredly. "I know. Peter has to make his own decisions."

At home that night, Nathan somehow manages to navigate dinner with the family and goes to his study as soon as they're done. He pours himself a Scotch and stares out the window. He isn't a kid either, maybe never really was, and he has no excuse for letting anyone else make his decisions.

He pulls his phone book from the desk drawer, but Meredith's knack for disappearing turns it into a challenge. He tries a good half dozen numbers before finally getting through to voicemail that's actually her voice, _you know what to do_, low and lilting and full of promises. Nathan remembers that well.

"Hey. It's…me. I just called to say— I think maybe you did speak out of turn. I'd really like— Call me when you get a chance, okay?"

He tells Heidi he's going over to his brother's, won't be long. Peter looks surprised when he shows up at his door. "Hey, come in. You want a beer?"

Nathan nods, and Peter goes to get it. Nathan takes a long pull from the bottle before getting to the point. "I need to talk to you about something."

Peter sits down, looks concerned. "What's up?"

Nathan fills him in, the whole story, and Peter's gaze stays locked on him. "Do you think this guy is for real?"

He shakes his head. "I wish I knew."

"So what do I do?"

"I can't tell you that, Peter."

"Since when?" Peter grins.

Nathan ducks his head. "I'm all out of older brother certainty, I'm afraid."

Peter sips at his beer and considers and says at last, "If there's a chance he can help, I have to take it, right?"

"We don't know anything about this man," Nathan reminds him.

"I know I don't want to hurt people," Peter says quietly.

Nathan squeezes his shoulder.

"Call the guy, okay, Nathan?"

There's no uncertainty there, and Nathan nods.

Peter gives him a lopsided smile. "What do we really have to lose anyway?"

It's a question that—after Nathan has made the call, after the man in glasses and his associate have paid them a visit—they won't even know to ask. If the answer is "far, far too much," they'll never realize it.

* * *

_Once there simply was no answer._

Here's a story: The world is ending, and our heroes have to save it. They try and fail, try and fail, who knows how many times, but in the eleventh hour, make one last, flailing attempt and, finally, success. It's not easy, and maybe there are losses to mourn, but the world marches miraculously on. That's the way the story goes. That's how it ends.

Life isn't much like a story. Stories make sense. Have a point. Last longer than the few seconds it takes to say, _They didn't know what to do, and it all went to hell._

This is not a story: There are two brothers, Nathan and Peter. They have courage, and determination, and all the love in the world between them, and none of that is enough. They see the end coming, have time to think and plan and try, and still. Not enough. Nathan cheats and steals and makes various deals with various devils. Peter hides and runs and tries to fight. And still.

It unspools in slow motion, strangely soundless, all the colors washed out, like a dream, like a calamity. People run, and Peter stays rooted to the spot, the atoms inside him already shimmering and trembling and ready to divide. Nathan steps calmly, going to his brother's side.

"I can't control it!" Peter cries out, but only Nathan can hear.

He answers calmly, "I'm not leaving you."

He wraps an arm around his brother, and they streak up into the sky, faster than a missile and far more deadly. The air grows thin, and Peter starts to glow, and Nathan doesn't stop, on, on, into the dead of space.

On the ground, in the city, people look up at the sky and point and wonder, "What is it, that pretty, pretty light?"

Life is not a story, and sometimes, this is just how it goes. This is how it ends.


End file.
